


Buttoned Up

by astolat



Series: POI works [45]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Suits, Tailoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p class="western">"I've never noticed a problem with a zipper," John said.</p><p class="western">"That's because you've never experienced the alternative," Harold said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buttoned Up

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Buttoned Up (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1523699) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



> [Originally posted for Porn Battle XV](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/65746.html?thread=9222098#cmt9222098), for the Finch/Reese prompts _tailoring_ and _suit_.

"I just don't want to be fussing with buttons, Harold," John said absently. Was that car pulling up in front of the bank? — no, just slowing to go around the corner. He resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the steering wheel. Kara had pretty thoroughly trained him out of fidgeting on stakeouts. Next to him, Shaw sighed noisily and went for her bag of chips again.

"It's not really less convenient once you get in the habit, I assure you," Harold said in his ear. "And the seated line is just so much more appealing."

"I've never noticed a problem with a zipper," John said.

"That's because you've never experienced the alternative," Harold said. "To my mind, a perfectly fitted suit should require no attention once you've put it on. A zipper may not tent _invariably_ , but it does occur often enough. Not to mention there are significant hazards to a too-hasty zippering."

"Not really a problem with briefs," John said.

"Mm," Harold said, in that noncommittal tone that meant he had opinions about _that_ , too. "You should try it at least once. Just to see what you think. Gianni is just finishing up that last one for you, isn't he? I'm sure it's not too late to ask him to put one in."

"I don't know. What if I don't like it?" John said.

"It's not very difficult to — oh, excuse me," Harold said. "I'm getting something on one of the bugged phone lines."

The earpiece muted. John sighed. He glanced over at Shaw. "What do you think, Shaw?"

She was licking sour-cream-and-onion crumbs from her fingers. She looked over at him with a flat expression. "Well, John, since I don't want to get into your pants, I don't have an opinion on how they open." She sucked her thumb clean with a noisy pop.

John frowned and turned to stare forward out the windshield.

#

Of course, for Harold it was just a matter of principle.

#

John got back to his apartment around four in the morning, number safely delivered to the police. He tossed his keys in his basket, yawning, and started to shed his clothes. A business card came out of his jacket pocket along with his cellphone: Gianni's. John looked at it. It was well into business hours in Italy. He hesitated a moment, and then he dialed.

The suit arrived by courier a few days later, first thing in the morning. John put it on. It was a little annoying to have to do the buttons up, but the fly felt comfortable enough afterwards. He didn't see a huge difference himself — a little smoother maybe. He stood in front of the mirror for a while, moving his shoulders and his hips, checking the fit and feel.

Before Harold — life divided into _before_ and _after_ — before, John had always thought of suits as a necessary evil, the camouflage that could make a six-foot tall white man invisible all over the world, at least as far as remembering his face went. Uncomfortable, confining, awkward, stiff at the shoulders, a problem in a fight. He wore his jackets too big and he split a pair of pants at least three times a year, and he bought suits like he bought lunch: first place he found, first suit he found in his size, out the door. He would've laughed if someone had told him he'd spend three hours over three days standing on a platform surrounded by mirrors while a tailor bustled around him with chalk and measuring tape, Harold in a chair sipping an espresso and watching the whole thing with a critical eye.

Harold was already at the library, typing. "Good morning, Mr. Reese," he said absently.

"Morning," John said, coming towards the desk.

Harold glanced up to smile and then paused to give the new suit an appreciative once-over; then he said, "Oh, you did try it!" He stood up.

It was funny. John hadn't thought about, hadn't let himself — he was still not letting himself — but his breath was coming quicker anyway. "I did," he managed, as Harold stepped in close.

"Just as I told you, the line is so much more elegant," Harold was saying, his head tilted in a professional way, circling around him, brushing at the shoulders, touching the lapels. "It's that small degree of added refinement — "

He paused. His hands were barely resting on John's waist, his thumb on the curve of the top button. The button-fly beneath had swelled into a generous smooth curve, no tenting at all.

Harold said, gently, very gently, "May I?"

Blood was pounding in John's ears. "Yes," he said.

Harold eased his fingers under the waistband. The buttons slipped open one by one. "You see, it's really no more difficult," Harold murmured, running the edge of his thumb up and down along the front of John's briefs. "But, please forgive me, the briefs _must_ go. This seems positively unhealthy."

"Anytime you like," John said, desperately.

Harold's mouth curved into a small, pleased smile. "Tonight, maybe," he murmured. Downstairs the front door clanged: Shaw getting in. Harold buttoned up John's fly again, the faint pressure of each button going in like a tiny jolt.

"Tonight?" John said. He couldn't help letting a whine creep in.

"Well," Harold said. He was breathing a little harder himself. "Perhaps we might step out at lunchtime."

# End


End file.
